


headlights in the night

by thegreatandterriblematt



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drunk Driving, Drunk John, Gen, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Young Dean Winchester, Young Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-18
Updated: 2013-08-18
Packaged: 2017-12-23 22:03:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/931569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegreatandterriblematt/pseuds/thegreatandterriblematt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One of the rare, precious moments when John's proud of Dean. Of course, he's drunk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	headlights in the night

It's one of those endless nights when his Dad won't stop for a motel, won't even pull over and park at the side of the road to sleep. Dean doesn’t know what’s put Dad in this mood, doesn’t know what day it is, let alone if the date has any significance. He knows it's about Mom, because that's pretty much the only thing that can put that particular dark look in his Dad's eyes, the only thing that can make his mouth draw shut like that, sealed tight like John’s afraid of the things that will trickle out if he lets it crack open.

So they're on the road, Dad's hand clenched a little too tight on wheel, AC/DC turned up just loud enough to be heard over the engine, more familiar and comforting than any lullaby. Sammy’s been sent to sleep by it, curled up in the backseat, blanket wrapped over him, head lolling against Dean's shoulder. It's cold at this time of year, even with the heating on and the blanket, so Dean made Sam put his jacket on as well, and has his arm wrapped around his little brother. Dean can’t sleep, not just because it’s cold and cramped, he’s used to that, but because he’s scared.

Dad's been drinking. Not much, he’s not reckless, just enough to take the edge off, Dean reckons. Not that he knows what it’s like to be drunk, not yet anyway. Oh, he’s tried whiskey already; a couple of hunters snuck him a shot at a bar one time, thought it was hilarious to watch him choke it down. They weren’t laughing when John found out, though. No, he doesn't know what it's like to be drunk, but he remembers the burn of the whiskey down his throat, the way it felt like his lungs were on fire with it. .

John drunk isn't like most people drunk; not like the clumsy men Dean sees in bars, stumbling and staggering from barstools to bathrooms, getting progressively louder, cheeks flushing redder. No, John gets quiet, quieter than he normally is, unless it's one of the times when he’s drunk too much, and then it's like all the words he normally holds in build up and overflow, burst out in a torrent, a stream of consciousness, loathing, and despair. 

Normally though, John just gets slower, gets more careful. He drives steady enough, Dean thinks, keeps within the speed limit, keeps his eyes on the road, but he's a little sloppier turning corners, lets the car drift a little, reactions a fraction slower. It's enough to make Dean nervous, especially driving on a night like this, when the night sky is overcast, not even the dim light of the stars filtering down to the highway, and they’re far enough away from anywhere that there's no residual light from towns to brighten their way. The only illumination comes from their headlights, which cut white swathes through the inky darkness, casting beams against the blacktop as the Impala glides over it, engine a muted roar that blankets out the sound of any possible approaching vehicles. 

Dean looks out the window, cheek resting against the cold glass, breath escaping in dragon-puffs, crystallising in the crisp, chill air. He can't see anything, just gets the impression of indistinct shadows moving, running into one another as they glide past; of shadowy shapes left in their wake as they drive endlessly, aimlessly. Dad hasn't said where they're going; hell, Dean doesn't even know if he knows where they're going, or if they're just driving to leave the last town behind them. It feels like they’re running away from something, but then, it always feels like that, like disaster is dogging their footsteps. At some point, his eyes slide closed, the darkness behind his lids not much darker than that without, and he sleeps. 

When he wakes, it's because of the absence of noise. The roar of the Impala's engine cut off, the radio silent. He can hear voices; his Dad and those of strangers. He's cold and stiff, a crick in his neck where he's slept awkward. Outside it's bright, unnaturally so, harsh and white unlike the mellow gold of sunlight, and he cracks his eyes open, squints into the bright headlights of the cop car that's parked in front of them. Already, he knows not to give away that he's awake, not until he's got the situation assessed, figured out what's going on. Cops aren't the enemy, but he knows they aren't always on the same side either. 

There's two of them, both men, he can't really see what they look like, his eyes still half-closed and half-blinded, and he can't make out exactly what they're saying, but he knows the interrogatory tone they're using, can hear Dad responding, quiet, polite, guarded. He knows they're screwed if the cops figure out Dad's been drinking, knows that Dad knows it too. Knows they're more than screwed if the cops decide to search the car and find the arsenal in the boot. 

He hears the voices grow louder, sees the faces of the cops swivel towards the car, John gesturing towards the back. Automatically, he closes his eyes, pretends to be asleep. If he doesn't know what Dad's said, then it's smarter to keep quiet, to act asleep, won't have to answer any questions he doesn't know the right answers to that way. 

"- my boys in the back." He hears his Dad say as they draw closer. You'd have to know him well to tell he'd been drinking from the way he speaks; he doesn't slur or stammer, not at all. He handles his words like he’s gargling glass, too careful, like they’re sharp-edged and he’s one slip of the tongue away from a mouthful of blood. 

"It's pretty late to be on the road, especially with kids in the car,” one of the cops says, shining a flashlight in the back, lighting the interior of the car up. Dean scrunches his eyes up a little, fake-groans, and pretends to stir before subsiding back into fake-sleep.

"Yeah, I know, but we're going to visit relatives and it's a long drive, especially with kids. I don't want this trip drawing out, so I'm driving through the night. Quieter that way, easier on them too," John says. Dean stores the information, ready to corroborate.

"Whereabouts are you headed, anyway?" The other cop asks. 

Dad hesitates, "Well -" Dean can tell he's having trouble thinking up some place on the spot, probably can’t even remember which state they're in. 

Yawning, he pretends to wake, opening his eyes and stretching, "Dad?" It's not too hard to sound younger than he is, sleepy and confused and just a touch frightened, and it helps that Sammy stirs as Dean shifts. Sammy’s still baby-faced, floppy hair a little too long, body sprawled open and vulnerable.

"It's alright, Dean, go back to sleep," John says, and Dean nods, curling his arm around Sammy a little bit tighter, protective. He'd bought Dad enough time that when he replies the lie trips fluently off his tongue, and the cops nod, buying it. 

There's a couple more minutes of talk, a few more questions, a warning to drive safely; to pull over now and then; to stop at a rest station and buy coffee, and then the cops are getting back into their car and driving away. John climbs back in the Impala, but waits until their rear lights have faded out of sight before starting the engine. 

"Dean?"  
"Yeah, Dad?"  
"Good boy."


End file.
